


Valuable Commodity

by rockstarpeach



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, End!verse, M/M, Prostitution, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:11:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockstarpeach/pseuds/rockstarpeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a whore. Or a therapist. It's hard to say. It's sometime before 2014, and Castiel's powers have faded. It's not easy getting used to being mostly human, and Castiel finds a way to feel useful. Dean finds out. Kinda bleak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valuable Commodity

Title: Valuable Commodity

Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Castiel/OMC (though nothing graphic)

Rating: Adult

Warnings: future!fic, whore!Cas, slight asshole!Dean

Spoilers: 5.04

Word count: 3,800

Summary: Castiel is a whore. Or a therapist. It's hard to say. It's sometime before 2014, and Castiel's powers have faded. It's not easy getting used to being mostly human, and Castiel finds a way to feel useful. Dean finds out. Kinda bleak.

xXx

It's not his first time out here. Hell, it's not even his tenth. Months he's been doing this, though not every day. Not every week either but often enough. And Dean hasn't noticed. Or if he has, he hasn't asked where Castiel has been, where he goes when he takes off for hours, or how it is he seems to come back with desperately needed supplies each time. Sometimes supplies that even Dean has never managed to scrounge up. Things like insulin for the diabetics, handcuffs and stun guns, vegetable seeds for a garden Chuck wants to start. Condoms.

His first time, he'd taken cash. But when he'd gotten back to camp and showed it to Dean, feeling ridiculously like a pet trying to win his master's approval, Dean laughed at him. A cruel, hollow sound, tossed the money on the floor and asked him what the fuck he was supposed to do with that.

Most of the world, the world that Dean and Cas and the poor sons of bitches who follow them (and those like them) live in, doesn't run on money. It's a barter system, has been for a while. They find supplies where they can, trade them with others who have what they need and need what they have.

Sometimes it's material goods, like clothes and weapons, energy bars and toilet paper. Power cables. Sometimes it's skills. A doctor to deliver a baby, a priest to perform a marriage. Soldiers, for protection.

That's what Dean's become. That's what he's good at.

He'll get a tip sometimes, from another camp, one without as much muscle. They'll tell him about a supply of something, somewhere and they'll team up, split the cut.

There are raids between regular trading expeditions. Old hospitals, schools, grocery stores. But they're dangerous and mostly everything nearby was picked clean within a few months of the Croatoan virus hitting the major populated areas. The Croates control most of the cities now, the humans driven to the outskirts, the country, and it's not a good idea to travel on your own. Not a good idea to travel in a group either, as they've learned. Too many times.

But it's not like they have a choice.

Castiel doesn't go with them. He isn't strong enough, isn't fast enough. Not without his powers. He can't fight, his aim is terrible. He's trying, he is and he's getting better, but he's not an angel anymore and as if the emotional pain of being without his family isn't bad enough, he's having a harder time than he'd have thought getting used to the physical limitations of his body.

He'd gone once. Early on, when they thought he was still worth something and that was when they found out just how badly his powers were fading. He'd been overconfident, had put himself in a bad position and someone had died. Someone who should have been him, because there was a choice. Dean had made a choice. Save Castiel, or save the mother of two young boys, because there wasn't time for both.

Dean had chosen Castiel.

Dean hadn't talked to him for two weeks after that and when he finally did it was just as he was heading out with three others to track down one of Lucifer's demons. He'd looked at Castiel, jaw tight and eyes dark and sad. "Stay home," he'd growled, and turned his back on Castiel, got in his Jeep and drove away.

Castiel is useless in this world, a waste of space and resources and the way Dean looks at him sometimes, like he feels sorry for him, hates him and just wants him to keep out of the way… it's killing him. He has no valuable skills, nothing to offer. Can't fight, can't cook, can't teach the kids calculus, so they can grow up to build canons and bombs.

He can't do anything, doesn't have anything. Nothing but this.

He's got his body. And that's not even his either, not really, but he's got nowhere else to go so it's not like he can give it back at this point. And people seem to think it's attractive enough.

So he does this.

Sneaks away to disaster zones, run-down buildings in levelled areas of cities and towns that are too destroyed, too depressing for even the Croates, and he earns his keep. Proves his worth, even if just as a whore.

He's not the only one. Not by a long shot, because people still want to fuck while the world is ending.

He can see four others just from here, where he's standing in the broken doorway to an old movie theatre while he leans against the wall. Though the others he sees, they're probably independent contractors, working for a meal, or warm clothes. Maybe a book.

Don't ask for much, because they can't get it.

Castiel is a big fish and he knows it. He's trying for casual, arms crossed over his chest, and coat hanging loosely around him, but he knows he can't pull it off. He also knows that his inability to conform is what gets him his business.

He looks unearthly, untouchable, even if he isn't anymore and that's why people choose him. They choose him over the thirty four year old woman, pretty with a radiant soul, severely underweight and showing an obscene amount of skin. Choose him over the beautiful seventeen year old boy, who acts shy but will do things that would make the actors in the pornography that Dean used to watch quake in their shoes.

They choose Castiel and they give his existence value. They give him worth on his hands and knees in hard dirt, or face down on a torn, damp mattress. Nose deep in the crotch of some man who's got vitamins to spare and a desperate need to feel alive amongst all the death.

Someone finds him.

It doesn't take long.

He leads the man inside, doesn't bother to smile, to give him a flirty, come-hither look. He's already snared him being his proper, detached-looking self and now all that's left is negotiation.

"What have you got?" he asks the man once they're inside, stopped in the aisle of a cinema beside the back row of mostly intact seats. It barely registers that the man is handsome. He doesn't typically let himself consider such things.

Dean is handsome.

And he doesn't want to think about that.

"I'm an electrician," the man says. "Or… I was. You… you need any work done?"

He's obviously new to this because that kind of trade work doesn't go for much. Most camps have at least one person that can string up some basic electricity without setting fire to everything. As long as they can get their hands on some solar panels or there's a creek nearby. Windmills are few and far between these days. Dean says they call attention to you. They're tall and easily seen.

"No," Castiel answers, shakes his head once.

"I don't…" the man says, ducking his head, thinking. "I don't have anything. My house…" he sucks in a breath, a hiccup and Castiel thinks he might cry. Wants to cry with him. "I've got nothing. My truck, but it's falling apart. A… a swing set, that my daughter used to…" A sharp sob, and then he clears his throat. "A few bags of salt, for the driveway…"

"Salt," Castiel says and then thinks. "And the swing set." It would be good for the kids.

The man looks at him, eyes wide and wet. "That's all… that's all I have. I…"

People tell him things. Things people wouldn't normally tell strangers, not even strangers they're going to fuck in exchange for driveway salt. He's not exactly sure why but he suspects it might be because he already knows.

"Then you can come with it," Castiel answers him, feels his pain, his loss. "I'll take your salt, your swings, your pots and pans. Your towels and your truck and anything else you have. And you. And in return, you can have…" he looks down at himself, back up to the man. "Anything you want."

The man knows he's being offered somewhere to stay, people to be with, a place to belong and he nods enthusiastically. "Okay," he says, swallowing. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." Because, like everyone else these days, he doesn't have a choice.

Castiel nods. "What would you like? In return?"

The man blushes, bites his lip, lowers his head. "I…"

Castiel offers him a sympathetic smile, fingers under the man's chin and lifts his face. Sinks to his knees, and does what he's come to do best.

When he's finished he stands, cups the man's face in his hand gently. Holds him there, as his breathing returns to normal. He glances quickly down at the man's chest, free hand snapping out to grasp the small locket that falls freely against his shirt. He knows without looking that it holds two pictures. One of his wife, one of his daughter and Castiel grips it tight and pulls, breaking the clasp in the chain around his neck.

The man gasps and his eyes turn hard and Castiel strokes his thumb over the man's jaw. "Be back here in one week," he tells him. He didn't take their one and only van today and he'll need it, he thinks, to carry this man's possessions. "With your payment. You'll get this back."

The man shakes off Castiel's touch, and steps back.

"Don't worry," Castiel tells him, smiling sadly. "We have a jeweller. It will be… good as new."

The man stares at Castiel's hand, tears welling up in his eyes as he watches the charm being placed in the pocket of his trench coat. "One week," Castiel reminds him. "I promise. Go."

It's still early and he might be able to do a little more business before it gets dark.

The man swallows and nods, backs away a few steps and then turns, disappears around the corner.

Castiel slumps when he's gone, shoulders hunched over and head down, fingers the side of his coat pocket, tips trailing along the edge of buffed silver through cotton and wants to cry.

He might, he thinks. Crying can sometimes be good for business and while some salt, some children's toys and an extra soldier isn't a bad haul, Dean has been lamenting their lack of bandages recently and Castiel had hoped to find someone who could make that trade today.

He blinks, tilts his head back and sucks in a breath, lets one tear fall before he blinks the rest back. Takes a step towards back of the theatre, and freezes.

"How much?"

Dean.

Dean's voice, breaking through his inner turmoil and making him feel even worse. He is a whore. He knows that. He isn't okay with it, not exactly, but he does what he has to do. And now Dean knows.

"I didn't think you needed to pay for it," Castiel says by way of answer, turning back around and grinning. It isn't genuine and he knows it doesn't look like it. His bravado could use some work.

"Oh, I don't," Dean answers easily, stepping out from the shadows of the side set of seats. He'd no doubt seen the whole thing. Maybe even followed Castiel from the moment he left camp, though he knows that's wishful thinking. Dean doesn't care about him enough for that anymore. "Doesn't mean I haven't."

"With what?" Cas asks, taking a step closer to Dean. "What do you have that doesn't belong to everyone?" Because he knows Dean sleeps around and it _hurts_ , but it's true. He also knows that Dean's first priority is his people and he won't do anything to hurt them. Won't trade medicine or food or warmth for a cheap thrill. _Won't_.

And that's only one of the reasons why Castiel loves him.

Castiel sighs. "What are you doing here, Dean?" he asks, not giving the man a chance to answer. Honestly he's not sure he wants to know what Dean has, what he's willing to part with, for sex.

Dean's teeth clench and his eyes narrow. "I followed you."

Castiel wants to smile but he knows it will only send Dean running.

Instead he raises an eyebrow.

"But since I'm here," Dean continues, pushes up off the chair by the aisle and saunters over with a smug grin. It's practiced and false and Castiel wants to hit him. Of course he never will. "Might as well make the most of it."

"What are you talking about?"

"I asked how much, Cas," Dean reminds him. "How much to get you on your knees for me?"

Castiel's breath catches in his throat and he closes his eyes tight, fighting back a new wave of tears and then opens them again, looks straight at Dean.

"Why are you doing this?"

"This is what you do?" Dean asks, ignoring him and waving his hand around the empty theatre. "You blow people for cans of tuna and Q-tips?"

"I don't just blow them," Cas tells him and his voice is deep, heavy. He knows it's a low blow and he can't believe he's even saying it, but Dean is _destroying_ him here. He can't take that look, can't take feeling like he's let Dean down somehow, like he's even more of a disappointment. Like… like what he does is some sort of betrayal.

Dean snarls, his lip pulls up at the corner and his nose crinkles. He turns his head. "How much?" he asks again, only this time the question is forced out through ground teeth and his hands are balled up in fists at his sides. Castiel might feel like he should be frightened if he wasn't so pleased to get any reaction whatsoever out of Dean. It's been a while.

"Setting aside for the moment the fact that the question is null, considering what you gave me would only end up back in your hands…" Castiel tells him and they share a brief, tight smile. "More than you can afford to part with, I assure you. I am… a valuable commodity."

It's true. People pay him much more than they pay the others.

"Cas…" Dean breaths out and his voice is tight, pained and Castiel wants to go to him, fold Dean up in his arms and take away his pain, even if only for a moment. He's become very good at that. He even makes a move, takes half a step forward, his arms just staring to rise. And then Dean speaks, breaking the spell. "Blow me," he orders.

Castiel stops, jerks back and scowls. "Stop wasting my time, Dean," he tells him. "It's early enough yet to find another… friend. Leave me to it."

Dean snorts. His hands unclench and clench back up again. "Friend," he spits out, like the word tastes bitter. "Is that what you call it? Does that make you feel like less of a whore?" Dean's words are sharp, angry and Castiel doesn't know what he's done wrong. He's only doing what he can, the only thing he can, to help out.

Castiel stands up straight, tall and powerful even if he feels anything but. "I _am_ a whore, Dean. And that fact has seen many of our people satisfactorily through the elements and fits of fever."

Half the camp's stock of Tylenol is Cas' doing and Dean hadn't asked any questions when three men showed up one day offering to put a new roof on one of their group cabins, nodding to Castiel on their way out.

Dean's eyes start to water and he blinks the tears back, grabs Castiel's forearm hard with his fist.

"Blow me," he says again, only this time it's a plea. "Please, Cas, fuckin'…" Dean sobs then, a heavy, desperate sound, bites his bottom lip. "I'll give you anything."

"Why?" Castiel wonders out loud. "You have anyone and everyone you could possibly want. Why? Why would you make that offer?"

Dean laughs and it's broken and Castiel's heart breaks all over again.

"I… Wow, Cas," Dean says, and this time when he laughs, it's a little less hearty, but a little more genuine. "I can't believe you'd have to ask that." And he really sounds like he can't.

He places his hand on Castiel's shoulder and Castiel goes willingly as Dean gently pushes him to his knees. What else can he do?

Castiel tilts forward, nudges his nose against Dean's crotch, right there in his face. He's not hard, but he's not soft either and Castiel juts his chin out, drags it along the column of flesh, pulls back.

"What will you give me, Dean?" He asks, because he needs Dean to tell him. Can't do this for nothing. Not even for Dean.

"What do you want, Cas?"

Castiel just looks up at him, opens his pants and takes him out. "You know what I want," he says when Dean's pants are around his thighs and his dick is hard in Castiel's hand. "Will you give it to me?"

Dean jerks forward, the head of his cock sliding through Cas' fingers. "I…" he clears his throat, shakes his head, as if to clear it. "Take your shirt off. Want to see you."

That's not exactly an answer, but Castiel complies. Stands up, strips out of his jacket, out of his shirt, and with Dean's hands on his own, guiding him, does the same to Dean. Puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck and pulls, tilts his head down and wants to kiss but doesn't dare.

Dean breaths in and pushes him down again, cranes his neck to watch him sink once again to his knees and they both gasp.

Cas grabs his cock again, hard, squeezing. "Tell me," he demands, rough and needy. "Will you give me what I want?"

Dean stops, freezes, hand tightening on Castiel's neck and then relaxes, pulling Cas forward gently. "Yeah," he says and it's a concession. Not something he wants but something he'll agree to and it's good enough. It has to be. "Yeah, Cas I'll give it to you."

"Just me," Cas whispers, right before his lips close over the head of Dean's cock, a reminder, a warning.

" _Fuck_!" Dean curses, bucks forward, relaxes. "Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah baby. Just you." Castiel doesn't believe him, not for a second, but that's okay. It's a pretty lie. One he can cling to, replay in his mind when he's got his ass in the air for some haggard man who reeks of vodka, or when he's staring out his window at three in the morning and Dean's still 'talking strategy' in Amy's cabin.

Castiel swallows him down and Dean cries out. It's a horrible sound, not pleasure at all, gut-wrenching and devastated and Castiel just swallows harder, sucks deeper.

"Cas... why?" Dean chokes out, and Castiel tastes the tanginess of his pre-come, a sharp burst on his tongue as he fingers Dean's balls.

He doesn't answer. Of course he doesn't. He's got Dean's cock stuffed down his throat. His tongue swirls and his head bobs and he grabs Dean's thighs tight.

Dean gives up then and it's a relief. Castiel swallows and licks, works his head up and down and it's extraordinarily quick. He gets paid for this after all and it's usually in his best interest to make it as quick as possible. With Dean though, he wishes he could make it last longer. Would, if he didn't think it would just make Dean angry and he's shooting down Castiel's throat in a matter of minutes. When Dean's legs go loose under his grip he pulls back, hands moving over them like they're precious.

They are.

He doesn't want to let them go, doesn't want to let Dean go. Because Dean said he would be with only _him_ , he promised. But that was when he wanted to have his dick sucked. And Castiel knows Dean well enough to know that that doesn't count.

It might have a few years ago, but not now.

Dean's hand is warm and sure through Castiel's hair, his thumb brushing gently over Castiel's cheek. He lets go and Castiel feels the loss of his touch like a punch. Dean throws his shirt on and tucks himself back in, fastens his pants.

He wants to grab Dean, pull him close and tell him he loves him. Make him kneel in front of him, kiss him like a lover, beg him to ask Castiel to stop selling himself. He won't though. Because Dean _won't_ ask and the look on Dean's face, the pity and the heartache when he ducks his head, avoids answering, clears his throat and draws out his name… ' _Cas_ ', like it hurts to say it – it would kill Castiel.

Dean will be in someone else's bed by the end of the week, Castiel is sure of that despite his promise in the heat of the moment, but Castiel has become very good at pretending. The amphetamines help.

A hand is on his shoulder then, gripping his flesh tight and Castiel blinks as he's pulled to his feet. Dean pushes his shirt into his chest and waits while helps him into it, grips him tight by the arms and leans in with a tortured look, kisses Castiel on the mouth swift and unsure.

It's rough and fast, closed-mouthed and he can feel the hard pressure of Dean's teeth against his lips through the flesh. Dean pulls back a second later, tilts his head down and presses his forehead against Castiel's, his hand squeezes firmly on the back of Castiel's neck.

"Be careful," he says, gruff and strained and when Castiel closes his eyes, breathes out a long breath, he pretends Dean adds ' _I don't want to lose you_ '.

When he opens his eyes again Dean is gone, disappearing around the corner that leads to the theatre door and Castiel swallows, shrugs his shoulders so his coat hangs properly again, and heads out the door himself.

Dean is nowhere to be seen when he gets outside, but he doesn't expect him to be. Dean has a world to save and Castiel… Castiel has a job to do.

END

Title: Never Saw It Coming

Pairing: Dean/Cas, mentions of Dean/OFCs, Cas/OCs

Rating: R

Word count: 3700

Summary: At first, Dean's not happy about Cas whoring himself out. Then… well, then he's still not happy, but at least he gets it.

xXx

So, Cas is a whore.

Dean has to admit, he did _not_ see that coming.

He should have, when he looks back on it, but he's had his head so far up his own ass lately that things, the things that used to be important, have apparently just slipped by him.

Cas is letting guys fuck him, girls too maybe, who the hell knows? And he's doing it for Dean's cause, because Cas had taken it up as his own years ago. Lives for it now because he has nothing else to live for. Nothing but the way Dean looks at him when he's done something Dean likes, the way Dean touches him when they're alone at the end of a good day.

The other way Dean touches him, at the end of a very _bad_ day.

He follows Dean, does what he's told, but only because it's Dean that asks and not because Castiel believes any longer that anything they do can possibly make a difference. And for this, for something he doesn't even believe in, he does...

Fuck! Dean doesn't even want to think about what he does. Saw it first hand a few hours ago and he had to call on every ounce of will power he had to stop himself from beating that sad-ass widower to a pulp and Cas right along with him.

It wasn't really his place.

On their _best_ days Dean and Cas have never exactly been what he'd call 'functional' and it's not like Dean has made a habit out of keeping it in his pants lately himself.

He knows he's allowed to say exactly dick all about this, because as much as he wants him to be Cas isn't his, hasn't been for a long time. Since Dean started sleeping with half the girls in their camp and Cas decided to keep himself comfortably numb on a steady diet of booze and pills. Oh, he's not an addict and he's not unreliable. Not yet. But Dean sees it coming.

It kills him knowing where Cas is headed, but he won't stop it. He'll watch it happen. Stand by on the sidelines and fucking _watch_ , as the one person in all of creation that was ever really and completely on his side becomes something he won't even be able to recognise.

Because the one thing that could stop it, the one thing Cas needs from him, the one and only thing Cas has _ever_ needed from him, is something that Dean won't give him. _Can't_ give him. Maybe if things had turned out differently, if Sam hadn't said 'yes' or if Dean _had_ , if they hadn't destroyed the world with their Goddamned hero complexes, if there was anything at all left inside him that even remotely resembled the man he'd been once upon a time.

But he's not that guy anymore. He's shredded and empty and fucked up and fucked over.

He can lead, plan, fight for a cause he knows is lost and give other people hope when he has none. He can kill every last evil son of a bitch that's stupid enough to get between him and the devil and do it with a smile on his face, licking his lips and spitting out blood, the crunch of bones and give of flesh disturbingly comforting background music.

He can go through what little is left of life with a determined rage and a sick need for revenge that he thought he'd never experience because at this point that's all he knows how to do anymore. But there's no way in Hell he can love.

Not like Cas wants him to. Not like _Dean_ wants to.

So instead of begging Cas to stop whoring himself out, instead of telling him ' _No, Cas, I don't love you. I wish I did but I fucking can't. Can never give you that, but if you're patient with me, if you stand by me, even when I fuck up, if you never ever get on your knees for anyone else again, ever, I'll give you the next best thing_ ', he'd pushed Cas down on his knees. He'd lied to him and fucked his mouth, left him there for the next person that happened to be wandering by, to take their pain away for a few minutes and maybe feel like he was worth something for a while. Maybe they'd look at him like Dean used to.

No, he'd really never seen this coming.

Though now, back in his cabin, with Chuck and Rick (or Dick or Nick or whoever the fuck) hiding from his foul mood in the stock cabin and his third whisky in his hand, he thinks about it. Really thinks about it, looks back on all the things, some little, some not so much and they fall into place.

The unexplained absences, the tight lips when Dean questions Cas about where the hell he's been and his inability to meet Dean's eyes when he simply answers 'out'. The way he avoids Dean's bed for days at a time on occasion and his eyes flash with something suspiciously akin to relief just before they blaze an unforgiving fire, whenever he catches Dean with some woman or other.

The way Cas has of always getting something they need, even if it isn't what they need most and the way Cas sometimes shuts down when they fuck, like he's trying to distance himself. The way he looks at Dean sometimes, like he's sorry, like it's all on him that they're falling apart at the seams when Dean knows that anything and everything that's ever gone wrong between him and Cas has been wholly and completely _his fault_.

Things make a sick sort of sense now and he feels like an idiot for not realising. Thinks maybe, deep down, a part of him did know and just didn't want to face it.

Because Dean and Cas have their problems.

They have intense, heated arguments that leave them both shaking with anger and regret and the occasional fat lip or black eye. Sometimes they completely ignore each other, passing each other in line for lunch or assembling weapons or even waking up next to each other in the morning after a night of sharing the same bed without touch or word.

More than sometimes, Cas slips a pill or two into his daily routine and Dean turns away, doesn't try to stop him like he knows he should because when Cas gets high it just means he shuts the hell up already and let's Dean be.

And more than that even, Dean drinks more booze than water and spends as many nights as he can with anyone who isn't Cas, because he can't take the pressure of someone needing him like that.

He hasn't dared love anyone, not since Sam. Hasn't dared count on anyone like he did his brother, who betrayed him for the devil while Cas did _nothing_ and the both of them can just go straight to fucking Hell.

Except for the part where it isn't too late for Cas. Sam is damned now and a little bit more of Dean dies every day with the knowledge, wants to join him because Hell with his brother will no doubt be better than Hell on Earth, but he keeps hanging on.

Because Cas believes in him and other random, pathetic people believe in him and at this point he can't just give up. Can't say ' _sorry for being stupid enough to go up against the devil, but It's time to surrender now, hope you enjoy your stay in the pit!_ '.

Can't because they deserve to be saved, on the basis of being human and fighters and because Cas is among them now. Cas, who gave up everything for Dean, is right down there with everyone else and it's a responsibility that makes Dean sick sometimes but one that he gladly accepts, because deep down, when push comes to shove, Castiel _is_ his.

Even when he's taking it up the ass from strangers for a swing set and a smile, Cas is his and he shouldn't forget that. Neither of them should.

Dean wants to tear into him but he can't. Cas isn't home yet. Fuck, for all Dean knows, after the day's earlier events Cas won't come home at all. Oh, he'll come back to camp because he's not an idiot, but for the first time ever, Dean doubts that Cas will come to _him_.

It's a horrible feeling and his gut twists, heavy and tight. He feels an uncomfortable tickle in the back of his throat and thinks maybe he wants to be sick.

He left Cas three hours ago and he's not back yet. It's not dark, not quite, but it's coming up on it. Dean pours another five or six swallows of whisky straight from the bottle down his throat as he thinks about where Cas is, what kind of guy he's letting fuck him right now. Wonders, with a masochistic thrill, if he's even still alive.

He knows he is. At least he knows it intellectually, because Cas is smart, resourceful and he can take care of himself almost as well as Dean can take care of him. But Dean lets himself fall into a series of dark, disturbing fantasies, Cas dying in horrible ways, over and over again, all because Dean's too much of a pussy to admit that he wants Cas safe, with him and far, far away from other prying hands.

If there's one thing Dean's good at, it's taking the blame. Right now he needs it, loses himself in gory half-thoughts, blood spattered across the insides of his eyelids. Cas ripped apart by Croates, tortured by demons, a desperate meal for a starving vampire.

Falling in love with someone else.

Maybe the man with the dead wife and kid.

Yeah, Dean can see that. He's needy and lost, just like Dean. The only difference is that guy is actually looking for help and maybe Cas will think he can save the poor bastard. Maybe he'll move out of Dean's cabin next week when the guy comes to stay with them, maybe they'll hole up together and Dean will have to watch them touch, kiss, smile at each other while some stupid asshole makes Cas happy in a way that Dean hasn't been able to in a long time.

Dean's pretty sure he's really ready to throw up now, the last half of the bottle and the disturbing imagery beating away at his insides. He's also seriously looking for a fight, needs an excuse for one and he grabs a condom from the clay bowl of odds and ends on the dresser. Nods to himself as he sticks it in his pocket. Makes a decision. He needs someone tonight and he doesn't care who it is. He feels slightly sick again when he remembers that 2,000 condoms showed up with Cas a month ago, when he'd taken off for the day and Dean hesitates.

Doesn't want to dip into that stash, not now he knows where it came from. But it's either that or risk knocking some girl up. He's not really worried about STDs. Nobody is anymore. They're virtually non-existent, which he supposes is one in the plus column for the apocalypse.

He could find a man he supposes, and his fingers slide into his pocket, the tips playing over the sharp edge of plastic, ready to grab hold and remove the offensive item. But then his fingers flex and slip free, leaving the condom right where it is, because no. Dean's never actually fucked a man who isn't Cas and as desperate and angry and helpless as he's feeling right now, he's not about to start.

He takes a step towards the door, hand raised and on its way to the knob, when it opens and Cas steps in.

He feels as surprised as he does guilty and his hand absently presses down on his pocket before he steps back and gets himself together.

He wants to hug Cas so bad his arms are shaking with it. Wants to pull him in close and bury his nose in the crook of Cas' neck, strip them both naked and bury his cock inside Cas, lie to him for the second time today.

Instead he snarls, a harsh mockery of a smile and says, "How was your day, dear?"

Cas breathes out a deep sigh, head rolling loosely, eyes flitting to the side before they come to rest on Dean's. "Dean…"

"Let me guess. Real pain in the ass?"

"That was uncalled for," Cas scolds and Dean's shoulders hunch forward because yeah, it really was.

Dean lets out a breath and takes a few more steps back, gives Cas some room to actually come inside, take off his coat.

"So," Dean says, and his tone is so level that an outsider would honestly just think he was making conversation, even though he feels like he's being torn apart from the inside. "You get people off and get paid for it."

Cas stops and looks at him, one shoe in his hand, the other already tossed haphazardly into the corner. "That's the general idea of prostitution, yes."

Yeah. Of course it is. "Do they ever... you know... return the favour?" He can't even believe he's asking this. He honestly doesn't want to know.

"Sometimes," Cas shrugs. "I don't particularly enjoy it, so I prefer that they don't. Sometimes though, they need it."

Dean gets that, he thinks. Knows desperation well and knows that what Cas does is only a little about sex and a lot about helping people feel less alone. And he wants to make it better, make Cas better, tell him he never has to do that shit again, fucking _forbid_ him from ever doing it again, and he wants to rip Cas' fuckin' head off for ever thinking he should sell his ass in the first place.

"Yeah, and you're all about giving people what they need, aren't you Cas?"

"I've spent so much time with you, Dean, that I'm used to it by now."

"Yeah, but I'm actually doing something here!" Dean shouts and he's glad he doesn't have a loaded gun on him, because he'd probably shoot himself for being such a fucking dick. "I'm trying to save the fucking world, not just be a convenient hole for perverts."

He doesn't mean it. He really, really doesn't mean it and he can't decide whether or not he wants Cas to know that.

"I'm doing more than you are, Dean. For people," Cas tells him.

Dean snorts. "Yeah, you're _doing_ for people alright." Because he's just that sort of shithead.

"Sometimes," Cas says as he comes forward and touches Dean's face with the palm of his hand. It's soft and grounding, the worn-out leather on the Impala's seats and his baby brother clinging to him after a nightmare and his mom's tomato rice soup. Everything he's ever thought of as 'safe' or 'home'. The look in Cas' eyes though, that's the complete opposite.

Pity and disappointment, verging on disgust. Dean wants to punch him, because who the fuck is Cas to be disgusted with him? Dean's not the one selling his ass for extra blankets and ruled notebooks for the half-assed school room he helped build.

And then… yeah. Dean's not selling his ass for blankets and notebooks. Cas is. He suddenly gets it and Cas is fucking right to hate him a little. Because Cas still cares about the little things, the people, where Dean just cares about victory.

But he the fucking kicker is, Cas doesn't hate him. Never could and Dean does a damn good job of hating himself a little extra, to make up for it.

"Sometimes," Cas says again and his hand drops to his side. "I can see who you were. A hero, Dean."

Dean cringes and takes a step back. 'Were'. Yeah, that's rough. It's not a surprise, but it's rough.

"You'll win this for us," Cas says, voice steel and steady, like it's a certainty he knows beyond no other and Dean wants to weep, because Cas is wrong. So fucking wrong. No, Dean won't win this. Dean is half way to giving up already, because Sam is gone and he's not coming back and the word 'yes' is itching on his tongue to get out.

The only thing that's been stopping him has been Cas. The sad little fallen angel, who fell for the world, for the side of right, for Dean. And yeah, Dean's not an idiot. Even if Cas hadn't told him a thousand times – in a dirty alley back in '09 while Cas kicked the fucking hell out of him, or on a cold night in Michigan in late 2010 when Dean's lips where wrapped around his cock, or on Dean's 32nd birthday in January of 2011 in Tallahassee with Cas face down on a worn out mattress at an abandoned hotel – that Dean was the reason he'd done everything he'd ever done, Dean still would have known.

"You don't have any idea what you're talking about, Cas," Dean croaks out, his voice worn and tired.

"I know more than you give me credit for," Cas says, finally tossing his left shoe aside. He pulls in a sharp breath, ready to continue speaking, but then he pauses, falls in on himself a little, looks up at Dean with wide, questioning eyes. "Are we… are we okay, Dean?"

 _No. Not even a little._ "Yeah," he says, clearing his throat, shooting his eyes to the floor to avoid Cas' gaze. "Yeah, we're good."

Cas nods but Dean can tell he isn't fooled for even one second by the lie. Lie number two today, and counting. "Make love to me."

"Cas, I don't…" Dean starts, but Cas already has his t-shirt off, and he's working on his pants.

"Dean." Cas' eyes are hard, his shoulders tense, and it's the tone of voice he uses when he's sick and tired of Dean's bullshit.

"Yeah," Dean sighs and starts to strip out of his clothes, because there's no use arguing with Cas when he's like this. It won't get him anywhere and he's already been enough of an asshole for one day. Besides, it ain't like it's a hardship, having sex with Cas.

Cas is naked now, back flat on the bed, _their bed_ , knees bent slightly and legs spread enough for Dean to fit between them. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about anyone else that might have gotten Cas in this position today. Or ever.

He works open his pants and starts to lower them, slides two fingers into his pocket, pulls out the condom and holds it up to Cas with a raised eyebrow. It's a bitchy thing to do, he knows that. Rubbing it in that Cas is a whore, that he sleeps around, probably more than Dean does and Dean can't trust that he's clean despite the rampant lack of social disease.

He expects Cas to get angry, or maybe embarrassed. Expects an apology or fight.

What he gets is hard eyes, a glare that almost makes Dean want to duck away, hide somewhere that Cas or anybody else can never find him again. It's probably nice there, he thinks.

"There a reason you had that in your pocket?" Cas asks him, casual as you please. "You were on your way out when I got here."

Dean doesn't say anything. Just licks his lips and fiddles with the condom, wrapper crinkling in his hand.

"You promised," Cas says and his voice is a whisper, shallow and soft and Dean drops the condom, along with the rest of his clothes, to the floor. Yeah, he did. Not four hours ago, he promised. And he'd been about to break it already.

He crosses the room and crawls onto the bed with Cas, because even though they argue sometimes, most of the time, Dean doesn't want to do it right now.

"I know," he says. Not 'I'm sorry', not 'I wasn't going to do anything', not 'You got it wrong'. Because all those things would be lies. Dean's had enough lying for one day.

Cas closes his eyes for a few moments, takes a breath and opens them again. He nods at Dean, like he never expected anything different and Dean hates himself just a little bit more. He cups Cas' face with his right hand and holds himself up with his left, leans in and kisses him.

"Don't leave me," he hisses, the demand coming out shaky and pathetic, but he still demands it. Even though he gave up the right to tell Cas what to do (not that he'd every really had that right) a long time ago, he demands it, because without Cas and without the promise of vengeance he has absolutely nothing.

And because this is Cas, because he's amazing and selfless and probably the best person that Dean's ever known, ever, he shakes his head, kisses Dean's closed eyelids and rolls Dean on top of him.

"If I ever leave you, Dean," he tells him, hooking a leg around one of Dean's and slotting their bodies tighter together. "It won't be my choice."

"Cas…" he starts, pressing his forehead against Cas', rocking his hips. He knows what that means, that Cas is just waiting. Waiting for Dean to kick him out, or waiting for Dean lose interest, find someone new on a permanent basis. Waiting for Dean to order him into a fight that he knows he won't walk away from.

And Dean sobs a dry, wracked sob because he wishes, wishes like hell and more than almost anything, that he could tell Cas that won't happen. Tell him they're together and they will be forever, or as long as they've got left and Dean's gonna keep him safe, always, protect him with his last breath. But he can't and they both know that.

"Shhh," Cas soothes, hands sliding comfortingly over Dean's sides and he tilts his hips up. Dean can taste the salt of tears on his lips and Dean's tongue snakes out over Cas' cheek bone. "Just fuck me, Dean."

Now, he really does get it. Gets what Cas does for people when he takes them to bed like this, because he's doing it for Dean now. It's what Cas has always done for him. It was probably more than this once, but the memories blend together with the fantasies and the living nightmares and Dean can't be sure.

Dean's just like all those other men that Cas lets inside him, and Dean sure as fuck never saw _that_ coming.

"Fuck me," Cas says again, a plea, a prayer, the words breezing lightly over Dean's lips before Cas kisses him.

And because it's all he's got left, Dean does.

END


End file.
